


The Breton Lion

by DefinitelyNotJonSnow



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28372944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefinitelyNotJonSnow/pseuds/DefinitelyNotJonSnow
Summary: In the years after the Great War, turmoil and tragedy plague Tamriel - for many, hope is all they have left after the destruction the Thalmor left.Ryam, former gladiator of the Arena, thirdborn son of the St. Claire dynasty of Evermore, finds himself on a fateful carriage to Helgen after fleeing across the border. Faced with execution, he resolves himself to his fate, only to find the Gods have a different plan in store for him...
Relationships: Aela the Huntress/Lydia, Aela the Huntress/Original Male Character(s), Hadvar/Ralof (Elder Scrolls), Male Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Irileth, Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Male Character & Original Male Character
Kudos: 6





	1. Prologue: Rise of a Hero

Prologue: Rise of a Hero

"My lord, we cannot! Your wife, she will have me dismissed if she catches wind of... of... this frivolous behaviour!"

He said nothing, instead inching closer until the space between them was shortened. His hands wrapped around her waist, admiring her curves as her own found their way around his neck. Whispered sweet nothings were exchanged before their lips touched, timidly at first before they lost themselves, the passion overwhelming them as they found their way to bed.

He found himself on his back as she straddled his waist, her clothing disheveled. She kissed him once more before a devilish smirk made it's way onto her face, her smooth scales shimmering in the candlelight.

"Do you know why they call me Lifts-her-Tail, my lord...?"

-

4E 201, Imperial City, Cyrodill.

"Ryam... Ryam... hey, Ryam! Wake up, you fool!" He opened his eyes with a stifled yawn as the boot nudged his ribs, the not so familiar sounds of cheering and despair reverberating around the small, dimly lit corner that he called his home. He groaned, rolling back over to catch up on his dream of an insatiable and lusty Argonian maid that he had been firmly invested in, before the boot nudged him once more, this time with more force behind it. It's owner cursed in frustration, throwing their hands in the air. "Ah, Keeravi! Funnily enough, I was just dreaming of you... strange, you were wearing a lot less though..."

This time though his antics weren't too fortunate and he was rewarded with a swift blow to his chest. "I said up, Ryam ... your bout is to start and I, for one, am sick of your bloody nonsense. Besides, the Lanista informed me that our bout is soon. I don't need a drunken comrade yet again." Slowly, he rose from his bed roll, making his way to the broken mirror that adorned his wall. He gazed at his reflection, squinting his eyes as he studied himself.

The first thing people normally noticed about him, was the deep red, almost blood like mane that sprouted from his head. Curled in ringlets, it fell to his shoulders, resting up narrow shoulders. His face was smooth and would have been unblemished were it not for the small, jagged scar that adorned him from eyebrow to ear, a gift from a Redguard scimitar in his first ever bout. He was tall, abnormally so for a Breton, standing around six foot two, and his body, whilst still retaining a slim physique, was covered in lean muscle, earned from many a day, week and month learning the art of combat. Light stubble covered his cheeks, a patchy mix of red and brown hair that he hated but couldn't be bothered to shave. He placed a hand against the wall and hung his head, a ringing in his ears as he resisted the urge to vomit.

His head was pounding in fury, his outing at the Bloated Float the night before slowly coming back to him. Lucius, the proprietor of the establishment and fellow ne'er-do-well, had offered twenty septims for whomever could finish four bottles Cyrodillic brandy within the hour. How the Nords and Orcs had laughed at the young milkdrinking Breton when he sat down at the table, bottles placed firmly in front of him. To their shock and bewilderment however, he had finished the challenge in twenty minutes, none the worse, and it was here that they hatched their plan. It became a game of "Who can get the kid drunk first?" - they kept paying him to drink more ungodly amounts of booze, learning quickly that the Rosed Champion was nothing if not resilient. At the end, it had been the sujamma that did him in - he had underestimated the Dunmer beverage, and it had quickly put him down not long after.

He shivered in disgust at the memory, heading back the makeshift sink and splashing water upon his face. He gathered some of it back in hands and brought to his lips, the sore, painful sensation in his throat subsiding slightly. He turned back to Keeravi with a cocked eyebrow, staring at her for a moment as he drank in her visage. She was dressed in the armor of the Imperial City's Blue Team, an outfit of Gladiators who fought in the Arena; like him, she favoured flexibility over protection, and the leather and furs of the light armor hugged her curves tightly. She wasn't very tall, at least half a foot shorter than him, but she had a look of a warrior, and the spear she had slung across her back was not just a decoration; she was a warrior, with the scars to prove it.

"Ravi, who put me to bed last night?" A chuckle escaped her lips as she opened up the foot locker next to his bed roll, handing him his shirt and boots. She leaned against the door with a smile, arms crossed. "Well, it was me, Barek, Arjn and Merris who found you, and judging by the smell, we quickly realised that you were in no state to make your way into to your room. So, Arjn smacked you in the head with his fist and we carried you into your room. That's about it, to my recollection." He visibly relaxed though it quickly turned to terror upon noticing she was still smiling.

"What aren't you telling me, Ravi?" She tried to hold in a giggle, but the look on Ryam's face was all but too much. She burst into laughter, one hand clutching her stomach whilst the other was firmly pressed against the wall to steady herself. "Merris tried to kiss you goodnight, and you accidentally head butted her in your haste to make her wish come true. Truly, a romantic gesture in the way you left her forehead... looks like one of the Wrothgarian peaks." He slumped on the bed roll, groaning in frustration as Ravi slipped from the room, still chuckling away at the unfortunate Breton once again.

-

The thunderous roars of the crowd echoed from above, evidently approving the display of the previous bout. It was probably the blood. People, whether a law abiding citizen of Cyrodill or a pacifistic monk of High Rock, seemed to have nothing more than love for the combat of the Arena; it was like skooma for sadists, and the Gladiators were the dealers. Ryam adjusted the sword that was sheathed to his hip, the emerald pommel sticking out amongst the sea of blue that clothed him. His hand clenched around the grip of his longbow, he counted his arrows, he let out a short prayer to Stendarr before he exhaled a calm, long breath.

He opened the door to the gate, slowly trudging up its stairs before directing a nod to Ravi, painted in the war paint of her people. Then, the announcement.

"Good people of the Imperial City, welcome to the Arena and your main event! Put your hands and your voices together for the four brave Heroes who have come to rock the very foundations of this Arena!

Representing the Blue Team, these two combatants have made a name for themselves as the most promising duo to compete in the Arena in almost a decade! With her spear, tenacity and skill, she has wowed you all with the prowess of an Argonian battlemaiden... the Hero known as Keeravi! And to her side..."

The crowd grew even louder, the sounds of feet stomping against wood, the cries of undying love from man and woman alike filling the air as Ryam raised a fist in the air, waiting for his introduction. "He has dazzled you, amazed you, stolen your heart and made you love him like countless others. Whether from afar with his marksmanship or up close and personal with his blade, he has carved through man, mer and beast to give you what you want... from Wayrest, High Rock, the Hero known as Ryam St. Claire!"

He tuned out once more, the noise of the announcer and the crowd becoming nothing but static in his ears. His heart hammered in his chest but he felt calmer there than he ever had anywhere else, stood there in a trance. Then the beginning of combat began.

"Lower the gates!"

Almost gingerly, Ravi and Ryam stepped onto the sands, eyes meeting the gaze of the Yellow Team. One was lithe and small, wielding two nasty looking steel dirks in each hand. Beneath their visor, he could see red eyes, full of disdain and hatred, a Dunmer by the looks of it. The bigger of the two, wielded a greatsword of iron and was clad in steel from head to toe, a sash of yellow cloth wrapping his arm. On his face, painted runes of Nordic origin were dotted on his cheeks. He let out a roar and charged, and they followed suit, meeting in the middle.

Almost immediately, he leapt backwards from a sweeping blow, narrowly avoiding being cleaved in two. Thankful for his reflexes, he circled to his left, knocking an arrow to his bow, drawing it tight and letting it loose at the Nord, the arrow sailing through the air before clattering into the stone behind him. He cursed and went to nock another when a burst of flame sent him scurrying behind a pillar. The Dunmer, in the midst of the chaos, had abandoned his battle with Ravi, leaving her to battle his bigger, stronger and better armoured comrade, instead opting to face the supposed inferior opponent in Ryam. He lashed out with his daggers, the blades slashing the leather doublet and causing a ghastly, red gash to well up beneath the mottled chain of his armor.

The Breton sidestepped the follow up, throwing his bow to the side and unsheathing his blade, the mithril in the blade shimmering in ripples in the sun. He held it in both hands, slowly keeping the Dunmer at range with quick thrusts and parried strikes as he looked for an opening. When his opponent went to lunge in too clumsily, Ryam deflected the blade and closed the distance, shifting his weight to his left before coming up through the middle, breaking through the Dunmer's guard. With skill, he weaved underneath the second strike, bringing his sword across the stomach of his opponent, the blade slicing through leather, mail, sinew and muscle as the Dunmer tried in vain to keep his 'innards' from becoming 'outtards

Ryam wasted no time, sidestepping to his right and bringing his blade down and through the combatants neck, watching as the blood spurted out on to the sands like a demonic fountain. He rolled the head to the side with his foot before looking up.

Ravi had not been as lucky - the two handed Nord was a far more experienced warrior and had been keeping the spear woman back with feints, parries and overwhelming strength. Keeravi was feeling more and more tired with every exchange - her strikes became slower, her parries far too rushed. The Breton tried to close the distance, running across the sands but it was all in vain. Backed up into a corner, the Argonian tried one last attack, thrusting clumsily into the warriors chest only for him to duck, grab the spear and wrest it from her, shoving it through the unprotected gap in her side.

The sounds of despair echoed across the arena as people audibly gasped, silence overwhelming the stadium. She tried to stop the attack but the life was already leaving her body, her breathing becoming ever more laboured before she finally collapsed, holding her side. Ryam and the Nord locked eyes, slowly trudging towards each other. "She your lover, Breton? Your scaly whore? Do not fret, you'll be joining her soon enough."

They attacked at the same time, the sound of metal clashing and sparks flying echoing around them. Parry, slash, weave, block, the assaults on both didn't relent. It became less a duel and more a brawl, as the two grappled, the Nord gaining the upper hand. He dragged Ryam to the sands, quickly pinning him down and raining heavy blows with his fists. The sounds dimmed and his vision faded, as he felt death come for him...

Yet, it didn't.

He let out a roar worthy of the Nordic Sovngarde, his hand grasping a pile of the sand and throwing it upwards, staggering the newly blind gladiator. He wasted no time, bull rushing him and tackling him to the ground, passing his guard and getting in his face. He thrust his head into the nose of the Nord, feeling the familiar sensation of warm blood trickling down his face. He pulled his arm up and flung his elbow down, cracking something in the face of the combatant before his eyes settled on a large rock. He picked it up, and with every bit of strength left, brought it down with a sickening crunch.

The crowd roared but he did not hear it. He limped his way to the body of Ravi, the Argonian battlemaiden smiling at him groggily. "Nicely done, Breton." She smiled, revealing bloodied fangs before more of the crimson was coughed up. She spat, still holding her side as Ryam tried to help her to her feet only to be stopped. "There's no use... look." She let go of her side, revealing a fist sized hole in her gut, intestines pushing against the skin trying to make their way out. Panicked, Ryam held her close. "No, no, no, you'll be fine, we'll find you a healer and get you back up. You'll be fine!" He pressed his hand to her wound, trying in vain to keep it closed to no avail.

He could feel the burning warmth of tears rolling down his cheeks, the choking sensation of a sob rising in his throat. "Please, get up!" He tried to plead and reason with her, to force her to heal but he knew it was fruitless - no magic could heal a wound like that, not without great cost. He hung his head and let out a sob, feeling her blood slicked hand find it's way to his cheek, raising his eyes level with hers. She leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips, smiling once more. "Fight on, Ryam... for the Blue Team... fight on..."

And then... silence. Nothing, but the eerie, hopeless and agonising sound of silence.


	2. Chapter 1 - Fate and Destiny.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Ryam attempts to make a new life for himself across the border, things go astray, leading him bound for a trip to the executioners block. As he finds himself closer to deaths door than he'd like, fate intervenes.

Falkreath Hold, Winter of 4E 202

The snow fell softly around him as he opened his eyes, blurred figures covering his surroundings. He tried to raise his arms to his face, feeling the tight, binding shackles holding his wrists in place - a sinking feeling overcame him, a dread that filled his stomach and made him suppress a sob. _"So this is how it ends,"_ he thought to himself _, "not with a glorious death in combat, or with a damsel in my bed. Talos, guide me out of my folly and help me reclaim my destiny."_

* * *

He had been caught merely two days ride from the border gate, caught unawares in the southern hold of Falkreath whilst he rested by his campfire. He had been going through his nightly ritual, a habit that had followed him since his less than stellar exile from the Imperial City - three bottles of cheap Cyrodillic wine, a bottle of skooma and the tortured thoughts of a man who had lost all he had held dear to him. Gone was the star attraction of the Arena, the embodiment of chivalry and bravery that drew crowds from Mournhold and S'tros M'Kai, replaced by the broken shell of a addict with nothing left to lose but his mind. He had gotten up in the middle of the night to piss, his sleep deprived state not recognising the small contingent of men huddling behind one of the large firs that littered the hold. He finished his business, waddling his way to the fire when an almighty shout rose behind him, sending him hurtling to the floor, scrambling for his sword. 

Soldiers of the legion, at least a dozen but no fewer than twenty, had formed a shield wall and pushed towards him. He tried to reason with them, to plead and bargain, but his words fell on death ears. It was only as the first legionnaire moved to attack, that the band of Nords rushed forward, bellowing their war cries as loud as thunder. It provided a timely distraction, causing the soldier in front of Ryam to hesitate, providing the opportunity for him to lunge forward and force his blade through the exposed gap in his armor, up through the shoulder and into the neck. He peered at the man, his expression sad and regretful, but he was a man with nothing left to lose. He helped him to the ground, cradling his head as he watched the legionnaire draw his last. **"Talos guide you, friend."** He raised a hand to his eyes, closing them shut before he rejoined the fighting, instinct kicking in as he gracefully weaved his way through the fighting. A timely step back here, a parried blow there, refraining from anything that might cause more unnecessary death on his part. He looked around, his breathing laboured and ragged, as something reminiscent of thunder clashed against the silence, ringing his ears and forcing him to his knees - it was ear splitting, forcing his weapon to drop to the floor and to cover his ears. He closed his eyes, waiting for death once again, only for it to elude him. His eyes fluttered open, watching a tall, strong bull of a man clashing steel with an officer of the legion, their skill equal but the physicality forcing the Imperial back. His shield was ripped from his arm by a swing of the Nords axe, causing it fall to the snow in a heap as its owner followed it to the ground. The axe was raised high, poised to end the Imperials life, only for a number of the legion to subdue the man to the ground as man dressed in well made, enameled armor saunteredup to the fallen warrior. **"ULFRIC STORMCLOAK! I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS DAY!"** Ryam tried to speak, calling out to the legion only to be met with the pommel of a gladius coming down hard on his head. **"Silence, Stormcloak... save it for the axe."**

* * *

The wagon steadily approached its destination, the sound of muffled trotting filling the silence that permeated the harsh, frozen land he had smuggled himself into. His vision cleared, revealing to him a young man barely older than himself in front of him, his golden hair braided on one side - he threw the Breton a kind smile that was not returned, the grin quickly dissipating as Ryam glared at him. **"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there."** _"More like you stumbled into my camp and brought me into this mess..."_ Ryam scoffed as the vivid memory popped back into his head, saying nothing as he studied the 'thief' to his right. Smaller than the talkative warrior, more lithe of build as well - hands that held few calluses, definitely not a swordsman. His hair was red like his own, but where the Breton's was a dark crimson, Lokir's was auburn and unruly. He shook his head as the conversation continued, staring at his feet as he tried to block out the words.

 **"Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along. Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn't been looking for you, I could've stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell."** He turned back Ryam, a half crazed look in his eyes as he spoke, the underlying tone of fear evident despite his efforts to hide it. **"Me and you, we shouldn't be here. It's these Stormcloaks the Empire want, not us."** Ralof went to speak, only for Ryam to interrupt, his own voice hoarse and monotone. **"We're all brothers in binds now, thief..."** Ryam's gaze fell back to the floor as the thief and the rebel continued their conversation, causing the driver of the carriage to bark out a command of silence. Ralof gave him the finger when his back was turned, causing the vague shimmer of a smirk to form on the Breton's lips. He looked at the other figure on the carriage, gagged and chained in the back; the warrior from last night, the leader of the rebellion. Ulfric Stormcloak. Their eyes met, both men nodding their respect to one another, from one warrior to the next as Ralof explained to Lokir whom the gagged man was.

 **"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But if they've captured you... Oh gods, where are they taking us?"** Ralof merely offered a sad smile, eyes focused on the road ahead. **"I don't know where we are going, but Sovngarde awaits."** Ryam watched the thief go wide eyed, panic creeping into his voice as he struggled against his chains. He eyed Ralof curiously as he asked the thief where he was from. " **Rorikstead... I'm from Rorikstead... why?"** It was at this point that Ryam knew why, answering for the soldier. **"A man's last thoughts should be of home."**

The gates of a town came into a view, a small community of miners, soldiers and farmers. As they rolled through, a familiar face stepped into his field of view, a middle aged man of shorter stature, clad in imperial plate and conversing with a High Elf. He muttered to himself, earning a glare from Ulfric and Ralof. **"I see you know the General... there's a story there, I'm sure."** Ryam merely shrugged, turning his gaze away and back towards the sky as he deflected the conversation. **"One for another time... what do you know of this place, rebel?"**

Ralof spoke slowly, a warm tone to his voice as he informed the foreigner of the town. **"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. Wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in. Funny, when I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."** His eyes wandered over the tavern, watching a young boy argue with his father, frowning at the conversation as the carriage began faltering to a stop. The officer in charge began barking out orders, the other Stormcloaks slowly standing up and forming a single file line; Lokir looked on in fear, whispering to Ralof like a young boy would to his father. **"Why have we stopped?"** Ralof merely shrugged, hopping off the carriage as he answered. " **Why do you think? End of the line. Come, best not to keep the gods waiting."** Lokir hesitated, staying on the carriage as he desperately protested his innocence. " **No, you can't do this, we're not rebels!"** Ryam had begun losing his patience, his voice carrying alongside the wind as he finally spoke once more. **"Face your death with some fucking courage, thief..."** He watched as two legionnaires dragged him from the carriage and held him up by his arms, though it did little to stop the Nord's pleas. " **You've got to tell them! We weren't with you! This is a mistake!"** He earned a smack across the head to shut him up, just as the officer strode up to the front of the line alongside a burly looking Nord carrying a list of some sort. 

  
She spoke with authority, her commands ringing out amongst the struggles and curses being thrown her way by the rebels. **"Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time."** A muttered curse came out from Ralof, followed by a jest, the muffled chuckle of Ulfric behind him. **"Empire loves their damned lists."** Ryam couldn't stop the smirk, ever more impressed by the glib tongue of the rebel soldier; _"In a past life, we might have been friends"_ he mused, watching as the soldier began reading out names.

 **"Ulfric Stormcloak. Jarl of Windhelm."** The furred garments of the rebel lord brushed past the Breton, nodding at him in goodbye as Ralof spoke, nothing short of admiration and pride in his tone. **"It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."** As the Jarl walked to the block, the soldier and Ralof locked eyes, a sense of recognition between the two and a bitter scowl from the legionnaire. **"Ralof of Riverwood."** The two eyed each other, Ryam keenly studying the interaction between them as neither backed down from the other. **"Glory or Sovngarde, Hadvar."** He proceeded to head towards the block, standing by Ulfric's side as the soldier, who's name was now revealed as Hadvar, proceeded to read the list. **"Lokir of Rorikstead..."** The horse thief paled and balked, resisting against his bonds as they pushed him forward. **"No, I'm not a rebel. You can't do this!"** He thrust his elbow into the head of the man holding his left arm, slipping free from the other soldiers grip as he broke into a sprint, even as archers began nocking arrows to their bows. **"You're not gonna kill me!"** He shouted, even as the officer let the order for the archers to fire commence. The hum of arrows leaving bowstrings rang out through the air before they hit their mark, savagely bringing the horse thief to the floor, speared and bolted to the ground as he gurgled his last breath. Ryam let out a muttered prayer to Stendarr as he stepped forward, waiting for his name to be read out. Instead, Hadvarr hesitated, looking from the list back to his superior. **"Wait... you're not on the list... who are you?"**

Ryam threw up a half arsed salute addressing the officer with a tone dripped in sarcasm. **"Uriel Septim the Eighth. What does it matter, I'm going to die anyways."** He heard a number of laughs from the prisoners, even as the officer marched forward and brought her mailed fist into his stomach. **"Age, nationality and name."** She spat on him, forcing him to tell the truth **. "Ryam St. Claire, formerly of the Imperial City. Twenty and two years of age... is that enough, your highness?"** Hadvarr spoke once more, looking at the man with a blank, confused stare. **"Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list?"** She merely stepped back, admiring her handiwork as a small, sadistic grin split her lips. **"Forget the list, he goes to the block."** Ryam rolled his eyes, muttering to himself bitterly. **"Me and my big fucking mouth..."** He forced himself to his feet, inclining his head to the former gladiator. **"You from Daggerfall, Breton? Fleeing from some court intrigue? I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock."** Ryam merely laughed, making his way to the block with the others. **"Sure, I believe you, Imperial. Talos guide you."** He brushed past a few other prisoners, some of whom, like him, held no affiliation to the warring factions - a tall Nord, dressed in dark leather with a face bearing criss-crossed scars lining his face, with a grim expression. The other two, as opposite as the night and the dawn; an Imperial looking woman, with raven black hair and mage robes, the other, a Khajiiti with orange matted fur caked in mud, an amused grin on his feline face. They all were silent, watching the events unfold as General Tullius approached, mounted upon a Colovian war horse. He stared at Ulfric as he rode past, nothing but cold, hard disdain painted upon the wrinkles of his face. He stayed atop his horse, holding a hand up as the legionnaire raised fists to the chest in salute. He spoke, his voice commanding respect and authority from his men as he addressed the prisoners, Ulfric in particular.

 **"Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero. But a hero doesn't use a power like The Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne."** A muffled grunt came from Ulfric, presumably some form of insult that none could hear beyond the edges of the gag in his mouth. **"You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."** As he went to speak once more, a loud roar came from afar, like nothing Ryam had ever heard before - he looked overhead, only to see nothing but the continued snowfall drenching the stone around them. He turned to Ralof, who merely shrugged and smiled, evidently not fearful of the impending death that awaited them. Out of the corner of his eye, Ryam spotted Hadvarr shift uneasily on his feet, speaking the question few dared to ask. **"What was that?"**

The general rebuffed him, motioning for the executions to begin. The officer nodded, turning to the priest standing next to the block. **"As we commend your souls to Aetherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon you, for you are the salt and earth of Nirn, our beloved..."** From his left, a Stormcloak spat on the ground and marched toward the block, scorn and foolish bravado radiating from his tone. **"For the love of Talos, shut up and get this over with..."** The priest faltered and walked off, just as the officer to move towards the condemned; with a nod to the executioner, she forced the man to his knees, her boot pushing the man head forward on to the block. His faith never faltered, however, and he looked up at the officer and spoke his last words. **"My ancestors are smiling down on me Imperial. Can you say the same?"** The axe came down, cleanly separating the head from its body as blood poured out from the lifeless corpse. The Imperial woman near the Khajiit visibly retched, as cries of vengeance rang around them. Ryam kept silent, eyes focused on the sky - another roar came from overhead, this time far closer than the last. As the corpse was removed, the officers eyes found their way to Ralof - the Stormcloak, so calm and nonchalant in his demeanour, faltered slightly under gaze as she called for his turn next. The mask of bravado came once more, as he slowly made his way to the block. Ryam watched on, fists clenched as he realised something was wrong. The air felt heavy, strange even, almost as if magicka was around them. He didn't know if it was withdrawal from the skooma or if he was merely imagining things, He looked up to see Hadvar doing the same, this time looking even more panicked than before. **"There it is again... what was that?"** The captain merely shrugged off the question, bringing Ralof down and placing her boot on his back. " **And here, I die - a martyr for the cause. It's been an honor, Jarl Ulfric..."** The executioner raised his axe high, and for a split second the world stood still, as another shout split the air, as wings as large and wide as castle walls blackened the sky. A winged, scaled beast perched itself on the tower in front of them, and Ryam heard the scarred Nord mutter something about the sagas as the Khajiit hissed in fear. They stumbled back, trying to get away, just as the Dragon opened its maw and uttered three words.

" **Fus. Ro. Dah!"**

He felt his feet leave the ground and his body crumple against the wall, just before the world went black...


	3. Chapter 2 - Unbound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Alduin lays waste to Helgen, a band of misfits try to make their escape - caught between warring factions, a living dragon and a jester on a rampage, they attempt to navigate their way to freedom.

**"Wake up Breton, there is no time to waste!"** He felt himself yanked up to his feet, like an unruly child dragged from his bed for lessons. It was if he was back home in Evermore again, late for Master Gharek's lessons once more. His eyes opened sharply, the sounds of screaming and battle filling the air, the sharp, burning smell of sulphur and flames filling the air as fire burned timber and stone alike. The tall Nord, the one with the scarred face and grim expression was pulling him to safety, dragging him into one of the towers.

A number of wounded men, Stormcloak prisoners, lay wounded on the cold stone floor as the Imperial woman tended to their wounds, purple light flowing from her fingers to their injuries. **"Stay still, this will help bind the wound closed. If you move, the spell will fail and I haven't the reserves to try once more."** She continued to help out as the Nord propped Ryam into a chair, the Breton looking up to find Ulfric Stormcloak descending the staircase. **"We cannot stay in here forever. If these walls crumble down, we will be buried amongst the rubble. We need to move."** His gaze fell upon the Breton, nodding in greeting. **"Let's get those bindings off, we need every able bodied man right now. Erik,"** he turned to the scarred Nord who had brought him to safety, holding out his hand. **"hand... Ryam, is it? Hand the man your short sword."** The warrior unseated the blade, flipping it over before passing it pommel first into the Breton's hands. He gave it a little swing, nodding in satisfaction before following the two up the tower's peak.

The dragon was circling overhead, laying waste to every building in its path as arrows fired at it from below. _"They'd have better luck trying to saddle the thing, at least it would be a quicker demise."_ The pessimistic thought came to Ryam quickly as the three men crouched low, a plan formulating in the Stormcloak's mind. **"We need to make our way into the barracks - it has strong walls and the stone should hold long enough for the beast to find easier prey. If we make a move out of the tower when the dragon circles close to the north gate, we can rush out. Ryam, stay atop the tower and -"**

A roar echoed behind them, like thunder but louder than anything reminiscent of a storm Ryam had ever heard. He had just enough time to tackle Erik into cover as flames erupted where they had just stood, Ulfric having clambered down the tower first. They rose to their feet, descending the staircase in panic right as a scaled snout burst through the wall. Erik could only watch in horror as the staircase gave out underneath him, hurtling him to the ground as Ryam stood trapped. The Breton instinctively stepped backwards, hugging the wall as more fire erupted to his left, a jet of flame that would have roasted him were it not for the cover he had. It peeked it's head inside, looking for more prey.

 _"Well... if there's any way to lose your life, a blaze of glory is a fitting end."_ He took a few steps back, waiting for the dragon to try exit the hole before he sprinted forward, leaping onto the dragons neck with agility. He tried to keep his balance as the beast recoiled, snapping its jaws towards its prey only to find that it had leapt from its scales to the burnt out ruins of the inn below. He tucked himself into a roll as he hit the floor, barely pulling it off. He stayed low, heart pumping furiously in his chest as he waited for the lizard to descend upon him, only to find solace in the fact that it was nowhere above him. _"Talos, you beautiful bearded man, thank you..." His hands pushed against the charred wooden floor as he rose to his feet, a clammy sweat forming in his head. "I need a bottle of skooma, anything to forget this ordeal."_

Shaking, he headed outside, jogging towards the road, only to find the dragon descending in front of the young boy from earlier. He moved his way forward, watching the soldier from earlier, Hadvar, rush forward and scoop the child in his arms, just as the dragon let forth another bout of flames. To his left, he heard a hiss, whipping around to find the filthy Khajiit from earlier. **"This one did not expect to find his day go like this when he awoke this morning..."** He watched as the feline walked alongside him, bow in hand watching the skies. **"This one's name is Ri'saam. Ri'saam will accompany you to safety."**

 _"Judging by your smell, 'this one' would rather you kept your distance."_ He kept quiet however, nodding his thanks as they slipped behind one of the burnt out buildings, just as the dragon pulled around for another attack - the Khajiit hissed as flames cut off their escape, ducking his head as Ryam hugged the wall. As soon as the beast left its perch and flew into the air, they sprinted back around, running past Tullius as he tried in vain to muster a defence. As they rounded the corner to the barracks, a trio of figures came into view, the mage, Erik and Ralof, facing off against Hadvarr, who had a blade in hand.

The feline and the addict heard the arguement as they came into view, bitter words exchanged. **"We're escaping, Hadvar. You're not gonna stop us this time."** Erik had an arrow nocked to his bow, preparing to fire at the legionnaire if ordered. Meanwhile, the Imperial mage merely looked on, easily annoyed by the lack of progression to safety. Hadvar went to say something, only to be cut off abruptly as the dragon flew overhead. He cursed aloud, rushing inside the barracks. **"...Fine! Move your arses, inside now."** Ralof, Erik and the Mage needed no further instruction, ducking their collective heads and rushing inside.

The dragon came flying towards Ri'saam and Ryam, the feline archer sprinting towards the door as the dragon spat fire behind them. **"Run, my friend, before you end up like a cooked rabbit! Hoppity hop!"** As the dragon closed in, the panic rose further in his throat, hopping over debris and charred wood just as the heat licked at his legs. With a stretched leap, he flew through the open door, Erik slamming it shut just as the dragon's breath left it's mouth.

* * *

**"Well... that was an interesting development. I was under the impression that the dragons had died out millennia ago, killed off in the Dragon War. Fascinating that one would appear now, at such an opportune time."** The mage paced across the room, spouting information about dragons and history and other things that didn't make sense to Ryam. Ralof and Erik had been scavenging the room for supplies, picking out garb for travel. Ri'saam had been wrapping his arm with a bandage, singed fur and minor burns his only injury in the fighting. Ryam himself, had been sat down, seriously feeling the effects of withdrawal.

He felt tired, sluggish, feverish - he settled into the chair, breathing heavily. He tried to speak but the words wouldn't formulate from his brain. The mage looked concerned, moving over to him and pulling out a chair for herself. Her skin was pale, uncommon for an Imperial, though she had the pointed nose and dark hair of her kin. She spoke, her voice kind and caring at once, filling Ryam with memories best kept buried. **"Hey, are you alright, sir? You look deathly ill."** Ryam tried to wave her off, only for his eyes to roll back in his head and for his consciousness to slip for a second. She grabbed his hand as he fell, the touch waking him back to reality. **"Friend... how long has it been since your last fix?"** He didn't answer immediately, hunched over the table with shallow breaths. She motioned for Ralof to come over with a flask, removing the kid and handing it the Breton, who sniffed it and swallowed it down greedily. _"Wine... sweet wine..."_ He felt the effects subside momentarily, steadying himself as he leaned back in his seat. **"I don't know... last night, around dusk. I'm not long on the stuff, but I can't get off it."**

She reached out and took his hand, her skin smooth and warm. He looked up, managing a weak, thankful nod. **"You'll feel weak until we find a healing potion, but in the meantime, stick to the back with me. With luck, it shouldn't be long until someone comes to find us."** In the back of the room, Ralof laughed, sporting a black eye and a split lip as he wandered over to the table, carrying an assortment of Imperial armor. **"I'm not too sure about that, lady - we tried to pry the door that led us here open but its welded shut. It would seem the flames have left us up a river without an oar."** He handed the equipment to Ryam, nodding at him before patting him on the shoulder.

 **"Don't worry, friend. We'll get you what you need, the Imperial bastards have got to have something lying around here somewhere."** Silence met his words as Hadvar and the mage glared at him, the Stormcloak sensing the hostility and raising his hands in apology. **"No offence, of course."** Knowing that he would be better off elsewhere, he went back to Erik, just as the other Nord pried open the door to the adjacent room. Erik turned to the group, waiting for Ryam to don his armor before they entered. Ralof, who had been leading the makeshift band of misfits, entered first, only to be held at sword point by two legionnaires and the Imperial officer who had ordered their execution earlier.

She said nothing, watching as Hadvar walked in, her expression falling from disdain to full blown hatred. **"Traitor! I'll have your head, Nord!"** She withdrew her own blade as she rang out commands for battle. Ralof barely got his axe up in time to deflect the first swing, Ri'saam firing an arrow at the attacker to ward him off. Erik, clutching a hefty battle axe scavenged from the first room, rushed forward, bowling over the second legionnaire before his axe came down in a wicked arc, cleaving off his left arm from wrist to shoulder. The howls of pain spurred on the other members of the attackers, who fought ferociously. Hadvar and Ralof were quickly overwhelmed, and Erik's axe had caught in the wooden frame hanging over the officer. With a swift kick, she sent him scurrying backwards, winded from the attack. The mage scurried behind Ryam, whispering a prayer to Mara.

Knowing that there was no other choice, the addict rushed forward, his short sword in hand. With a quick step, he closed the distance between the legionnaire attacking Ralof and himself, throwing a downward slash that was deflected clumsily. He moved forward once more, throwing his shoulder into the man, pushing him off balance and allowing Ralof the chance to finish the fight. With a rebel yell, the Nord pulled his axe backwards and flung it to the centre mass of the man's chest, taking him clean off his feet. As her ally fell to the floor, mortally wounded, the officer rushed forward and engaged Ryam, both warriors throwing caution to the wind as they parried and slashed at one another. However, the odds were too many, and Ralof, Erik and Hadvar closed in. With naught else, she let out one final yell, just as Ri'saam's bowstring let fly an arrow that found its mark in her throat. A final gurgle left her mouth as she fell to the floor, dead.

The group assessed their state for a second, and when all members assured each other that they were fine, they moved on. Ryam and the mage, who's name was revealed to Victoria, stayed to the back, the Breton deciding that she needed some protection should another fight arise. They descended the staircase just as a roar rose from outside the walls. They gingerly stepped forward, just as the roof caved in ahead of them, narrowly avoiding being crushed to death.

With a whistle, Ri'saam turned to the stoic Erik, a jest forming in his head. **"This one thinks Nords should have built stronger walls... less crushable, hmm?"** The warrior merely shook his head and opened the door to the next room, stopping in his tracks at what he saw - Stormcloak and Legion bodies littered the room, crushed, stabbed and burned. Ralof and Hadvar looked at each other, the legionnaire raising an eyebrow at the rebel. **"Normally, I would blame you rebels but... your comrades are among the dead too."** Ryam sniggered alongside Ri'saam, the Khajiit dryly speaking his mind. **"You are keen eyed, Nord... whatever gave you that impression?"** With a huff, the group moved into the room, stomachs audibly groaning as they looked at the food on display. Deciding that the room could be scavenged, they stopped briefly, to recover whatever wasn't nailed down.

Victoria returned to Ryam with a healing potion, ordering him to drink it to no complaint. He immediately felt his cravings subside, breathing a sigh of relief as the strength returned to his body. **"Thank you... I owe you a favour, so stay behind me. I want you to be able to collect it, should we make it out of this dingy hovel."** He noted the blush rise in her cheeks and chuckled, heading to the door with the others. The narrow staircase led them down in a single file line, the room they found next filling them with disgust.

 **"Of course you have a torture chamber, what oppressive empire isn't complete without a small dose of it? Hadvar, did the elves help you with the decorating?"** Ralof walked in first, eyes fixed to the iron, gated cages that dotted the north of the room - his hands balled into fists as Hadvar watched from afar, eyes glued to the floor in shame. **"I did not know about this."** A bitter laugh escaped the lips of Erik who strode towards Hadvar with a feral look on his face, only held back by the arms of Ri'saam. **"You did not know, or you chose not to? These are your countrymen, your kin, who are held here! Chained like beasts, tortured like experimental animals! You did not think to at least investigate?"** The legionnaire pushed his countrymen back, defiant and brave as the two men pushed against the feline separating them.

 **"I did not know, how long do you believe I was stationed here? I arrived the same day as you. Do not act as if I do not feel shame about this, it grieves me as much as it hurts you."** Erik let out a yell, trying to push past Ri'saam only for Ryam to intervene, holding the furious beserker back. **"You junkie fuck, release me! By Ysmir, I'll gut you like a pig, Legion dog!"** He tried to break free from Ryam's grasp, smashing his head against the Bretons chest, only to be flipped onto his back from a throw. Ryam withdrew his blade from its scabbadd, holding it to Erik's neck with a scowl and a whispered threat.

 **"Listen to me - we are not your enemy, not today. Right now, we all fight under the same banner for the same shared goal."** He pressed the blade against his neck, drawing blood. **"I do not wish to spill your blood today, for I see you have grief in your heart. But believe me, I will carve your heart from its chest if you threaten me again or hurt one of our group. We are all brothers in arms now, Nord."** Erik's anger faded, staring at Ryam with confused silence. For a second, it looked as if another fight was going to erupt between the two, only for the soldier to break into laughter, swiftly joined by the uneasy chuckle of the Breton.

 **"Ha! Were it not for that hairless chin of yours, I'd reckon you were a Nord! Certainly have the anger to be kin of mine. Fine, Breton, I apologise."** Slowly, Ryam withdrew the blade, sheathing it and extending a hand, which in turn was accepted as Erik made his way back to his feet. Hadvar looked on, mouth agape as Ralof managed a guilty apology. **"Hadvar... I'm sorry too. I know you're not like that. We were friends once. There is no reason we cannot be so now, at least for the time being."** Hadvar managed a weak nod, motioning for the group to move forward, Victoria kissing her Amulet of Mara as they passed the cages.

They ventured deep into the large cave that formed the underground of the barracks, walking past more corpses of rebel and loyalist alike, blood pooling under the bodies like a sea of sanguine. Ri'saam scrunched his nose at the smell, informing Ryam that his senses were almost overwhelmed by the copper in the air. The Breton in turn merely shrugged, noting that he was used to the smell of blood nowadays, to curious glances from the group. **"Believe me, I'll tell you once we're out of this infernal place."** They carried on, stomping through the flooded interior, stopping every now and then because more and more bodies came into view.

 **"Whoever tore through here has to have some real skill at arms - clean slices with a sword, all in mortal areas."** Hadvar and Ryam had been looking over at the corpses, wondering who or what had come rampaging through. Ryam had been impressed with the deduction skills of the legionnaire, quietly asking how he did it. **"I spent a year in the Whiterun guard a year before I joined the legion. We had a serial killer in the city a few winters back, killed drunk young men every few days with an assortment of weapons."** He grimaced, shaking his head. **"After a while, you begin to notice small things. How a man is killed, how long a body has been there, how someone escaped, that sort of thing."** He looked back at the corpse, a young man barely older than Ryam, eyes open in fear. **"Let's get a move on, I don't like being here."**

As the group moved further into the depths, the familiar sound of battle echoed close, though only one voice was heard, a laughing maniacal lilt. They rushed across a makeshift bridge, barely making it in time as it crashed below, just as Victoria stepped off of it. Turning the corner, the sound of hissing and steel slicing through skin came into view, a cacophony of horror and bloodshed. In the middle, stood a man dressed in motley, like that of Jester, surrounded on all sides by spiders so big it made Ryam's blood run cold.

The small fellow span around in arc of violence, slashing and stabbing spindly arms and eyes whenever they deigned come too close. Ryam rushed in, withdrawing his blade as he hopped onto one of the arachnids backs, driving his sword through the beasts head repeatedly, green fluid oozing out with every strike. He recoiled as the beast shuddered under his weight, collapsing in a heap as the others joined in. **"Hello, hello! Dear friends, come to rescue poor, lonely Cicero! Not at all like the bad men, no, no! They hurt poor Cicero, chained him, took him away from Mother! Cicero had to punish them, the naughty little soldiers!"** The jester continued to fight, even as the last spider fell, stabbing it repeatedly until little was left except ilchor and matted muscle on the floor.

Deciding to leave the little maniac to his own devices, Ryam patted him on the shoulder and went with the others, all of whom were speaking about the slender fellow. **"Ri'saam liked him, he was amusing... this one has never seen a jester before, are they all as giddy as he?"** Ryam smirked and shook his head as the Nords of the group grimaced and walked on. Victoria, on the other hand, was concerned about the burns on Saam's arm, enough so to use a restoration spell on it so it didn't get infected, much to the cat's chagrin. **"This one wishes you leave him alone, there is no need to fuss..."** he pouted, even as Victoria lectured him on the fine lines of hygiene. **"It is better to make certain, rather than use guesswork."**

They kept bickering, even as light began to show at the end of the tunnel. As they strode through the exit, into the moonlight of Skyrim's wilderness, they let out a collective sigh of relief, taking a moment to reflect on the events of the day. As the moon rose overhead, and the sounds of the night echoed in the distance, they made their trek just south of the entrance, ridding a camp of bandits before using it as stop for the night. .

* * *

Huddled around the campfire, they began to tell each other of their life, each person having their own unique stories to tell. **"As you may know, I'm not exactly the warrior type..."** Victoria sat close to the fire, wrapped in a fur cloak and hunched close to Ri'saam, who was picking at the flames with a stick. **"I'm originally from Bruma, a merchants daughter, but I found out early on that I had some aptitude with the arcane which led to me joining the Synod when I turned fifteen. That was... twelve winters ago, I believe? I learnt the fine arts of illusion and restoration, though I have the odd destruction spell in my arsenal should the need arise. I was on my way to Winterhold to further my studies, when the caravan I was journeying on was stopped. From what I recall, the driver had been smuggling weapons in... hence why I ended up in Helgen. That is... all, I believe. Enough, at least, for the time being?"**

Erik looked up and blushed, stuttering his words as he posed a question. **"So, uh... no fella, back in Cyrodill? Husband, betrothed...?"** Ralof and Hadvar laughed, the former almost falling off of the tree stump he had perched himself on, with Ri'saam cocking his head in confusion. **"You wish to mate with her, yes?"**

Ralof nearly doubled over laughing, Ryam joining in, clutching his stomach and murmuring a prayer to Pelinal. Erik flushed bright red, muttering to himself as Victoria blinked in surprise. **"I... no, I do not. And right now, I'm not looking for one. I hope that... answers that question. That's very personal, Erik. Shall we move on?"**

Ri'saam nodded, waving his hands towards him, like a showman gathering a crowd. **"Draw closer, my esteemed friends, as this one tells you a story, of betrayal and deceit!"** He paused for dramatic effect before continuing. **"Picture this... little cub Ri'saam, running amok in the salt city of Senchal, coercing and bargaining his way through life with fragant words and well placed promises. The kitten lived happily, travelling the continent selling wares and hunting game, living a life worthy of his ancestors, away from the shameful trade many of his kin practised. He set his sights on the snow lands of the north, where the barbarians fought all day and drank sweet alcohol by night."** Ryam smirked, drinking his cup of water as the Khajiit carried on. **"It was a long trip, and hard, but he finally found his way to Skyrim... he did not like it at first, with its loud people, sweet drink and solid rain... but he grew to love it, in time, and began to call it home. He travelled to a town not far from here, called Hell-gen, and here is where he was deceived. The nefarious guardsmen, tricked poor Ri'saam, told him that Khajit was not welcome here. Ri'saam tried to be nice, to follow the law, but the guard did not believe it. He called Ri'saam thief, smuggler, and searched his caravan. He found Ri'saam's sugar... called Ri'saam peddler of poison. Khajiit did not peddle poison, Khajiit only had sugar because of rituals. But the guard did not listen... Khajiit told he was prisoner... Khajiit thought he would see last moon."**

He looked down at his paws, a sad expression painting his feline features before he raised his head with a grin. **"But then, the elders blessed Ri'saam! The lizard attacked, saved Ri'saam from the blade, and helped Ri'saam find new friends... find new family."** He smiled, placing a small paw on Ryam's shoulder. **"That, is where Khajiit's tale ends, for now. This one would like to hear another story, before he goes to sleep."**

Hadvar and Ralof looked at each other and shrugged, both of them downing their cups in unison before the rebel spoke first. **"Well... me and Hadvar grew up together, quite literally. Known each other since we were but babes in arms. My father owned the mill, his uncle owned the forge. We were fast friends back then, a simpler time."** They exchanged a look and Ralof paled as a devilish grin formed on the legionnaire's face. He shook his head, even as Hadvar spoke. **"Aye, we were close. Ralof here had a crush on a girl we knew when we were young... he picked flowers every day for her when we were lads, broke his heart when she moved away. Over time, we both got jobs, me at the forge and he at the mill... things were great, up until the rebellion."** He looked deeply into the flames, pouring himself another cup of ale as a stoic expression overcame Ralof.

 **"I joined the legion, he joined Ulfric... after a time, we separated, former brothers turned enemies in a war that broke bonds. But, here we are today, allies once more. Maybe one day, we will find each other on the field of battle, but for tonight... tonight we share mead and stories. That's about it, I think..."** They all looked at Ryam, as Erik shrugged and simply told them he was a mercenary from Riften. **"Not much to tell... I grew up poor and had to make a living. Sold my sword to Ulfric, became a hired blade. That's it, nothing more."**

When it was Ryam's turn, he hesitated, staring at the wine in front of him before pouring it away, resisting the itch to drink. He sighed, looking at each of them in turn before telling his story. **"I'm originally from Evermore, in High Rock. My family rule there, and I have two brothers, Edward and Francis. The youngest of the litter, I left when I was thirteen to find my own path, settling into the Imperial City and becoming a combatant in the Arena."** He laughed, a content chuckle filled with warm memories.

**"When I arrived, I was naughty but skin and bone, a boy really... it was hard at first, physically demanding and it could break a person mentally. But I stuck through it, filled with ambitions of grandeur and fame. I arrived at the age of seventeen and spent five years there, rising to the rank of Hero. It was me and a number of other fighters - Keeravi, an Argonian battlemaiden who was... dear to me. Barek, an old Orc that was nearly seven feet tall but had a kind, grandfather like feel to him. He taught me how to wield a greatsword, and despite my lack of muscle at the time, I grew to enjoy the process. Arjn, with his prickly attitude and competitive streak - the arguments me and him would have in training, by Talos... he was like that brother who drives you insane, but at the same time would run through a battlement for you. And Merris... sweet, sweet Merris... wherever you are, I hope you are safe, my lady..."**

He smiled, feeling tears form in his eyes. He brought his hand up, wiping them away before clearing his throat, continuing. **"Life was good - I had fame, notoriety, a family. I could walk into any tavern in Cyrodill, and drinks were free. Nobles and generals tried to pay me to be their bodyguard. Criminals tried to bribe me to throw fights, only to find themselves thrown in against me. All was good, until Ravi died... then everything went to shit. Arjn found himself mauled by a bear, Barek was massacred against the current champion and Merris... Merris was sold to a Dunmer slaver, never to be seen again. As for me, I became addicted to Skoom... it dulled the pain I had, physically and mentally. I drank to forget, fought to exhaustion just so I wasn't alone with my thoughts. Eventually, I had to leave - I killed my Lanista over a debt and ran. Found my way across the border, and here we are."**

The group was silent as Ryam looked at the ground, ashamed until Victoria pulled him into a hug, his pent up emotions finally spilling out. His muffled sobs filled the air as she whispered soothing words. Ralof raised his cup, Erik and Hadvar following suit, as they spoke a toast. **"To those we miss... until we meet again, in Sovngarde."**

They continued into the night, bonding over battle, stories and drunken banter, only stopping as the sun rose and they fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!
> 
> Welcome to my new series "A Breton Lion" - I'll just start off by saying that I'm not a natural writer and that any and all grammatical mistakes are my own fault. I have no proof reader and thus, I may have missed a few things.
> 
> Secondly, this will probably be an infrequent work - I write on my phone, and thus it's hard for me to make big chapters often. 
> 
> Thirdly, if you do enjoy this story, please, leave comments and let me know - it may help me devise new chapters.


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